


When the Wind is Southerly

by standbygo



Series: Madness in Great Ones [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Johnlock, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Nightmares, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 06:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1808674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns to Baker Street, confident that he has fully recovered from the trauma of his ordeal while he was "dead". John knows better.</p><p>A sequel to A Hawk and a Handsaw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Little More than Kin

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.
> 
> This completely ignores Season 3 - the plot bunny was in my head before it aired and wanted to be written, so I did. 
> 
> Much thanks to my lovely beta, residentbunburyist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to HamsterMoon for the beautiful cover art.

[](https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/xyHSIGHjGzKbhqB8BMkB6dMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite)

John ran through the teeming rain from the saloon car to the door of the mansion, though not fast enough to avoid getting drenched. He felt a trickle of water wend its way down his neck and collar as he raised his hand to knock on the door, which opened just as his knuckles rapped the second time.

“Hello Anthony,” he said, stepping inside.

“Very nice to see you again, Doctor Watson,” the butler replied, and handed him a towel which had been draped over his arm.

“Oh, ta, Anthony, that’s lovely,” John said as he wiped his face and gave a swipe to his hair.

Anthony closed the door, and as the din of the rain vanished, John became aware of the sounds within the large, echoic house – raised voices, with a familiar baritone predominant. He looked at the Holmes’ butler with a wry look.

“Stormy skies today, Anthony?”

“Without and within, sir,” Anthony said, with a tiny smile that disappeared so quickly John wondered if it had actually been there in the first place. “Mister Holmes and Mister Sherlock are in the library, sir, just this way.”

John handed the towel back and followed the butler, smiling at the old-fashioned manners of the man – showing him to the room as if John hadn’t been there countless times already.

As they approached the library, John began to make out the voices of Mycroft and Sherlock:

“As I must tirelessly remind you, Mycroft, I am not a child, but an adult. I am of age. I can _vote_ , have been able to for nearly twenty years!”

“And have you ever? Voted?”

“That’s beside the point! The point is that I can make my own decisions!”

“And that’s stood you so well in the past,” Mycroft said silkily.

From the doorway, John watched Sherlock’s lips tightened into a tight, long line. Anthony took advantage of the slight pause in the argument to announce, “Doctor John Watson.”

Sherlock’s head whipped around to John, and strode over to him, gesturing with his cane rather than leaning on it. “John, thank God. Tell my moronic brother that he’s being ridiculous.”

“Happily,” John replied, “but what for this time?”

Sherlock huffed a breath through his nose, clearly trying to get his temper under control. “I went for a walk this morning, which my _physiotherapist recommended_ ,” he said, with a glare at Mycroft, “and my mother hen brother sent a car after me.”

“You were gone for four hours, Sherlock!”

“The car followed me at a distance of ten feet for an hour!”

“If you’d only be responsible-”

“All right, shut up, the pair of you,” John snapped. “Sherlock, it’s only natural that Mycroft would be worried about you if you disappeared, especially given… recent history. You should have left a note or something.”

Sherlock looked as though he was heading into sulk mode, and Mycroft was heading for smug, when John held up his hand. “I’m not done yet. Mycroft, Sherlock’s right, he is an adult – even if he doesn’t act like it sometimes. If he can handle a four hour walk, he should be able to do so without being monitored. You’ve always watched over him, but frankly, lately you’ve been smothering him. Autonomy is important to him, and you’re not letting him have it.”

Mycroft’s only response was a slight pursing of his lips, which was enough for John. He knew the message had been received, though Mycroft would never admit it. “Thank you for your input, John. I’ll leave you two alone to visit,” and strolled out the door.

John sighed and sat, feeling the tension in his shoulders that he always associated with Mycroft dissipate. “I can’t believe I’m refereeing between the two of you. Never thought that would happen again.” He grinned at Sherlock and was pleased to see a shadow of a smile cross his friend’s face.  He turned serious again. “That wasn’t really about your wanting to go for a walk, was it? What is this really about?”

Sherlock threw himself into a chair, twirling his cane like a defensive weapon. “I’m _bored_ , John, there’s nothing to _do_ here.”

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, and looked around pointedly at the hundreds of books lining the walls.

Sherlock sighed, and pointed with his cane. “Pick one, John, any one.”

John gave him a half smile; just for now, he’d allow Sherlock to show off, soothe his bruised self-esteem. Since finding out Sherlock was alive after all, he was willing to spoil him, occasionally. He walked over to the nearest bookshelf and pulled a heavy book off without looking at the title. He held it up to Sherlock, who glanced at it and grunted. “Open it, anywhere.”

John did, and said, “Page 376.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, and John could see his eyes moving under his lids. After a moment he sat up, smiled and said, “How appropriate. Chaucer.” He glared at the door through which Mycroft had left and spoke, his mouth curling around the old English pronunciation:

     “ _And shame it is, if a preest take keep,_

_shiten shepherde and a clene sheep._

_Wel oughte a preest ensample for to yive_

_By his clennesse how that his sheep sholde live._

_He sette nought his benefice to hire_

_And leet his sheep encombred in the mire_

_And ran to London, unto Sainte Poules…_ ”

Sherlock trailed off, and John said, “All right, you’ve made your point.”

“Not nearly, John. The point is that I’m so bored I’m willing to clutter up my brain with _literature_!” he spat.

John grinned as he replaced the book. He turned around, leaning against the bookshelf, and considered his friend. “Why did you stop there? That wasn’t the end of the phrase.”

“What?” Sherlock had tilted his head against the back of his chair and spoke to the ceiling.

“ _And ran to London, unto Sainte Poules_. There was more, but you stopped there. Mid-sentence. Why?”

Sherlock hesitated for a mere second, then shrugged. “Bored of it.”

“Hm.” John moved to the chair opposite Sherlock, leaning forward. “Sherlock,” he said, gazing at his friend, “do you want to come home?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, his eyes wide.

“Because physically you’re greatly improved, I think, and if you’re mentally well enough to feel bored, I suspect you’re well enough to come back.”

Sherlock stared at him, blinking rapidly. “To-” He stopped and cleared his throat. “To Baker Street?”

“Of course to Baker Street,” John said softly. “That’s your home, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pulled the cane between his knees, fiddling with the handle. “John, that’s very kind, but it’s been so long – you’ve been living there on your own for over three years, I’ll understand if you don’t want-”

“But I do want,” John smiled. He suddenly felt sure of this; the idea had been building over his last couple of visits to Sherlock, but today’s conversation clinched it. “If you want to, that is.”

“Are you sure, John?”

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes, and had a sudden memory of his friend, hair newly shorn, staring at him, saying his name but not knowing him. Now Sherlock was back in his mind, his personality as strong as ever, and John realized how much he had missed him.

“I am, yeah,” he said.

Sherlock smiled, a huge, natural grin that lit up everything. “Anthony!” he shouted, startling John.

“Jesus, Sherlock…”

“Yes, sir?” Anthony said from the doorway.

“Pack my things, and send for the car,” Sherlock said.

“Hold up, hold up, Sherlock,” John laughed. “Give me a couple of days to get the flat ready again, okay? I’ve been using your old room as an office, I’ve got to get it ready for you first.” Sherlock’s face fell, and John suppressed a giggle at the six foot tall five year old. “Also I should talk Mycroft into it.”

“The hell with Mycroft. I don’t need his permission.”

“I know you don’t, but his endorsement will smooth things over hugely.” He put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. Before Sherlock’s ‘death’, they had rarely touched like this, but now John felt more comfortable using physical reassurance with his friend, and felt that Sherlock appreciated it as well. “Twenty four hours, okay?”

Sherlock’s smile began to trickle onto his face again. “Thank you, John.”

John ached for a moment because he knew how rarely Sherlock said that, and, even more rarely, meant it. He grinned back, then turned to the butler. “Anthony, could you take me through to speak with Mycroft?”

+

Talking Mycroft around to the idea took much less effort than John had originally thought. He wasn’t delusional enough to believe that his earlier conversation had been the tipping point, but he also suspected that living with his brother was wearing on Mycroft as well, and that he would appreciate some privacy himself. John thought about how it would be if he were living in similar circumstances with Harry, and shuddered.

And so at 3:15 the next day, John wasn’t surprised to hear the downstairs door open and an imperious voice saying, “Careful with that, Nicholas!”

John opened the upstairs door and stood there, feather duster in hand, arms crossed, face stern. “I said twenty four hours, Sherlock. You’re early.”

Sherlock and the driver froze at the bottom of the stairs. John looked down at Sherlock and suddenly remembered their first case together, looking down another staircase at a whirling dervish shouting, “Pink!”

“I should make you wait on the pavement for another forty five minutes.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered, and John thought, _Oh ho, you’re not quite back at your full powers, not yet. If you were, you would have figured out I was kidding a full thirty seconds earlier_.

He grinned, and said, “Come on up, you ponce.”

Sherlock grinned back and started to take the stairs in his usual way, two at a time, then winced and settled for one step at a time, leaning on his cane. Nicholas followed behind, carrying a large box marked “FRAGILE!” in Sherlock’s loopy handwriting.

John stood aside, and said, “Welcome home.”

Mrs. Hudson had helped him with the cleaning and preparing Sherlock’s bedroom, but John himself had pulled out the box of Sherlock’s things and put them back around the flat: the framed taxidermied bat, the Sudoku puzzle cube, the shadow box bullet display. Sherlock looked round with a pleased expression and John knew he was noticing the returned items.

Sherlock crossed to the fireplace and reached into the carrier bag he was holding, pulled out the skull, and placed it carefully on the mantle.

John felt his throat thicken, and decided that he, and Sherlock, needed a minute. He turned to Nicholas and said, “Anything more in the car?”

“Yes, sir, more boxes and some suitcases.”

“I’ll give you a hand.”

He turned to the door after Nicholas, but not before he saw Sherlock’s long fingers stroking the skull, a small and sad smile on his face.

He got down to the car and was reaching for a suitcase when Nicholas said, “Doctor Watson, sir? I’ve got something for you.”

Nicholas held out an envelope to him, his name written in elegant copperplate across the front. “He said, don’t let Mister Sherlock see, sir.”

“Thank you,” John said, taking the envelope and tucking it carefully in his pocket. _Last minute instructions – or warnings – from Mycroft, no doubt_ , he thought.

Later, after a sumptuous dinner courtesy of a deliriously happy Mrs. Hudson, John was preparing for bed with the comforting noises of Sherlock rattling around downstairs, when he remembered the letter. Pulling it from his pocket, he lay down on the bed and opened it to find a single piece of paper, in the same neat handwriting.

_Dear Doctor Watson:_

_I hope you will forgive this unsolicited missive, and the familiarity which it entails._

_I have been serving in the Holmes household for over thirty years, and have known Mister Sherlock since he was a child. I am sure you can appreciate that his childhood and adolescence was challenging for himself and for the Holmes family, but I was always confident that Mister Sherlock would eventually find his place in the world._

_Please allow me this opportunity to thank you for your association with him, and – again, forgive the familiarity – your friendship to him, both in the past and since the regrettable most recent events. I do believe that Mister Sherlock is a better person for it._

_I am sure you will agree and are well aware that the way forward is not yet clear for Mister Sherlock, and that much healing remains to be done. However, at the risk of sounding disloyal, I recognize that this healing was not likely to occur at this house. So I am again grateful to you for the opportunity you have given him._

_I hope it is not too forward to me to offer my continued assistance to you as Mister Sherlock transitions back to his life in London. If I can be of any service to you, please do not hesitate to contact me at the number below._

_Sincerely,_

_Anthony Davies_

John reread the letter, moved at the kindness and concern that arose, clear, from the words on the page. That the butler of the household had perceived Sherlock’s potential as a human being when his own family had not was incredibly moving.

He picked up his mobile and entered the number at the bottom of the letter into his Contacts list. Then he sent a text:

_Anthony, just read your letter. No apology is needed, and thank you in return for your offer. I will definitely keep you in touch._

Less than a minute later his mobile binged.

_You are most welcome, Doctor Watson. Good night._


	2. Too Much in the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock clear the air - literally and figuratively.

The next couple of weeks passed with peaks and valleys of emotion for John. While it was fantastic to have Sherlock back at 221B, he did have to get used to sharing a flat again after three years of living solo. His memory seemed to have glossed over what a complete arsehole Sherlock could be.

For one, they seemed to have differing opinions on the definition of “unpacking”. To John, it was taking all the articles out of a box, finding a space for them, and dispensing of the empty box. To Sherlock, it meant looking through a box when you needed something, taking only that object out, and leaving the other items scattered all over the sitting room floor – preferably at 3am without warning one’s barefoot flatmate about the potential trip hazard.

In the past, John would have threatened to tip the contents of all the boxes out the front window, or at least indulged in a bit of shouting. But whenever he found himself getting close to raising his voice, he would restrain himself. _You thought he was dead, and now he’s back_ , he would think. _He went through untold horrors, he’s still recovering. Be gentle with him_. And so he said nothing.

Then one of Sherlock’s experiments caught fire on the kitchen table. John put it out with the extinguisher he had always kept under the sink, and after the danger was past, had a blazing row with Sherlock. After a solid five minutes of shouting, John caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s face and realized he was enjoying every moment of it. This set off John giggling, and Sherlock followed suit, and soon they were both half lying on the kitchen chairs, helpless with laughter.

After they had recovered, they worked together to clean up the mess, opened all the windows in the flat, and went for a walk in Regent’s Park to clear the air – literally and figuratively.

They walked most of the way around the park in a comfortable silence, enjoying the softness of the early spring day. Sherlock was trying to wean himself off the cane, and so had left it behind.

“Tired yet?” John said. “We can sit down for a bit if you need to.”

“No, I’m fine,” Sherlock said, but after a pause, he modified, “though perhaps we could cut through Broad Walk, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” John was quiet for a bit, thinking of how to phrase his thoughts to Sherlock, finally deciding to be blunt about it. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”

“A bit.”

John glared at Sherlock with mock anger.

“All right, yes, a lot. I thought just being back in London and away from Mycroft’s house would be enough. He wouldn’t let me experiment there, so I’ve got a bit of a backlog, but God! Even reading the papers are torture. All the cases I could be working on. I’m so bored I’m having trouble concentrating on what I do have going. I’m going out of my mind, John.”

John considered. “I’m sure we can think of something. You’re officially alive again, right? On paper?”

“Yes, just before the press release.” After John had found Sherlock on the street and Mycroft had taken him into care, there had been a small and subtle press release announcing that Sherlock was alive and was exonerated. The media had picked it up and John had had to hide in the flat with the curtains shut for a few days. Then a royal scandal had hit the news and the press lost interest. John was left wondering again how much influence Mycroft had over Britain.

“I thought I could start a few cases with the Met first,” Sherlock said. “Just a few, and you could restart the blog, and we could get a few private clients-”

“Hang on, hang on,” John said. “It’s not as easy as that. Lestrade will need to convince a lot of people to let you back into crime scenes. And that’s if he wants to have you there himself. It was a right mess for him when you left, you know.”

“No doubt, I’m surprised they were able to solve anything at all without me.”

“That’s not what I mean.” John quirked a look at Sherlock. “Do you not realize that Greg nearly got knocked down to traffic patrol? The damage to your reputation affected him as well. It wasn’t until you were exonerated that he started getting the big cases again.” He saw the frown lines appearing between Sherlock’s brows, and softened his approach. “Nonetheless, he does miss you.”

He almost laughed at Sherlock’s head whipping around to stare at him. “I’m sure he misses the high percentage of closed cases as well. Tell you what, I’m overdue for a pint with him, I’ll see if we can meet up and I’ll talk to him about it.”

“I’m pleased to hear that negotiations will be improved by the liberal application of hops.”

“Best negotiating tool invented,” John deadpanned. “All right, that was your blogger speaking. Now for Doctor Watson – how’s the ankle? We’ve been walking for about an hour and you’re still not limping, that’s good. Any pain?”

“Better. Aches a bit when it rains.”

“Perhaps we can focus on more cerebral cases, rather than running-around cases, at least to start?”

“Agreed.”

John cleared his throat, feeling a bit uncomfortable. “And the PTSD?”

“Not a problem,” Sherlock said immediately – too quickly.

“Sherlock, you – PTSD is serious stuff. You can’t just delete it and forget it never happened, and you’re magically cured. It’s an ongoing process, it takes months, years, you should be having therapy-”

“What makes you such an expert, Doctor Watson? Didn’t know you specialized in psychiatry,” Sherlock snapped.

“Personal experience,” John said, gritting his teeth against the anger that jumped up in his veins.

“John, now it’s your memory that’s failing. Your therapist had misdiagnosed you, you weren’t actually suffering from PTSD-”

“I’m not talking about when I got back from Afghanistan. I’m talking about when you died.”

Silence thumped between them. Sherlock looked chagrined, an expression so rare on his face that John relented. “It’s all right, you didn’t know.”

“I should have known,” Sherlock spat. “I’ve been back a week, countless visits before that, and I never saw. I’m not ready after all, stupid, stupid-”

“Stop that,” John said sternly. “You didn’t notice because I’ve worked very hard. You had your own issues to deal with as well.” Sherlock’s lips were still pursed, angrily muttering to himself. John nudged him. “Hey. You coming back helped a great deal too.”

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes serious. “Are you all right now? Don’t lie.”

“Yeah, yeah I am. I still go to my therapist every couple of months, kind of a top-up. But yeah.”

“That’s good.” Sherlock lips pressed together tightly for a moment, and John could see that he was struggling. “I – I am sorry. That I caused you so much pain.”

“Listen, Sherlock,” John said, pulling Sherlock to a stop and facing him. “I don’t know why you did it, and I know you can’t access those memories and can’t tell me either. But I know you, and I know you had a plan, and I’m sure that you had a damn good reason. And that’s good enough for me.”

For a brief second, Sherlock’s face fell into a soft, vulnerable, wondering look, then he attempted to gather his control. “John, I-”

_And that’s enough emotion for the both of us today_ , John thought, and said, “Of course, if I find out you did it for shits and giggles, I’ll kill you myself.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped, then he snorted a laugh. “Where do you get these idioms, John? I swear you watch too much television.”

John grinned, and they started walking again. After a moment, John said, “Seriously, Sherlock. If you want to go back to cases, I’m all on board. But I just want you to promise that if things get bad enough that you have to contemplate a scheme like that again, that you’ll let me in. And that you’ll tell me if the cases are too much.”

“Agreed. Now, to a matter of great importance – Chinese or Thai?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter this week, sorry - I'll try to get another one up over the weekend.


	3. The Witching Time of Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John realizes that all is not well.

“Bloody hell, really?” Lestrade said, setting his pint down with a thump. “You let him move back in?”

“Not a matter of ‘let’, Greg,” John said, with a slight harshness. “It’s his home too. Always was.”

“I know, it’s just…” Shaking his head, Lestrade took another gulp. “You’re a braver man than me.”

“Well, you know… Afghanistan, and all that.”

Lestrade grinned. “I’m only messing, really, John. God, he must have lived in at least ten other places that I knew of in the two years before he met you, always getting kicked out for some reason or another, or got bored. Or said he got bored, maybe didn’t want to admit he’d been kicked out again. But the moment he moved to Baker Street with you, he just… settled, as much as Sherlock can.” He looked distant for a moment, remembering, then shook his head as though to clear it. “Look, how is he really, John?”

John pressed his lips together to think. “Quieter, a bit. He was very quiet when he first came back, I think he was trying to behave himself. Had a lovely row yesterday so I think he’s over that. As rude as usual to his brother, of course. On the whole, he’s himself, but a bit restless, a bit…”

“Bored,” Lestrade finished for him. “God help you if we let that get on too long.”

John gave him a level gaze across the table. “So, seriously. What do you think, Greg? What are his chances of working – sorry, consulting – for the Met again?”

“Pretty good, actually.” John’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead, and Lestrade grinned at him. “When I saw that his case was being reopened, I collected some numbers – the percentage of solved cases for my division before Sherlock started, while he was working with us, then after he d – disappeared.” Lestrade’s smile turned smug. “Huge difference. Too huge to be a coincidence. Then Dimmock and Carter chimed in with their stats, the times when I was on vacation and Sherlock worked with them – same spike in solved cases. I like to think it tipped the scales with the exoneration.”

John was floored. “That’s incredible, Greg.”

“Well, it was kind of saving my arse as well, you know? And besides, we all want to get ‘em solved.”

John smiled, but then remembered another issue and shifted uncomfortably. “Greg, what about your team? Donovan, Anderson? You know how they are with him.”

“Anderson transferred to another department – I think he was a bit embarrassed after it all came out, couldn’t look me in the eye. Donovan’s still on though, and probably will be promoted. She has a sharp tongue, but she’s smart and a brilliant cop.” Lestrade eyed him over his glass.  “Sherlock’s able to handle himself, you know.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about, it’s me,” John said ruefully. “I’m a bit protective of him right now, I don’t want to get arrested for assaulting another copper.”

Lestrade pointed with his mostly empty pint glass. “Don’t treat him like a fragile flower, Watson. He won’t thank you for it.”

“Honestly, Greg, some days just not killing him is a supreme act of mercy.”

Lestrade barked out a laugh, which set John off and they laughed more than the single drink already consumed would indicate.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you deserve the fucking Victoria Cross,” Lestrade said as he wiped his eyes. “Next round’s on me.”

+

When John finally said goodnight to Lestrade and made his way home, he was a couple of drinks above glowing, and just a couple of drinks shy of staggering. He liked a drink with friends, but he figured if he didn’t do it more often than once or twice a month and avoided the hard stuff, he would steer clear of his sister’s addiction. 

He had one weakness when drinking, however: when at this stage of drunkenness, it was imperative that he consume fish and chips, heavy on the vinegar, from a chip van, eaten directly out of the paper.

When John unlocked the door of 221B (missing the keyhole only once), the warm and greasy cone of paper in his hand, he was slightly surprised to find the sitting room dark and empty. Sherlock’s coat was hanging in the hall closet, so he hadn’t gone out, but it was relatively early for such a nighthawk as Sherlock. John peered down the hall and saw that Sherlock’s bedroom door was closed, and realized that he must have gone to bed. John shrugged to himself – who was he to complain about Sherlock sleeping like a normal person? His news about Lestrade could hold until the morning.

With a sigh of satisfaction, he plumped into his chair and tore open the paper to his chips, enjoying the sharp smell of vinegar as it filled the flat. He was licking the salt from his fingers when he heard Sherlock’s door open.

He started guiltily, turning to see Sherlock shuffling down the hallway, dressed in his pyjamas. “Jesus, Sherlock, I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

Sherlock said nothing, but sat at the kitchen table at his microscope.

“Want some chips? Still warm.”

John heard Sherlock mutter-whispering to himself and turned back to his takeaway. It wasn’t unusual at all for Sherlock to ignore him completely when he was focused on an experiment, and John had learned ages ago not to be offended.

“Had a nice chat with Greg. He feels pretty positive about bringing you back in. He’s got to clear it with a couple of higher-ups, but he doesn’t see a problem.”

No response. That was a bit surprising. He had thought Sherlock would be more pleased.

Sherlock’s muttering developed an irritated edge, and John heard him push back his chair and stand. Sherlock wandered into the sitting room and John extended the cone of chips towards him. To his surprise, Sherlock ignored it and meandered through the room, whispering under his breath. John smiled to himself, reflecting how much Sherlock looked like a ten year old child, with bare feet and his pyjamas –

Suddenly John frowned as he realized Sherlock was not wearing his dressing gown. John could not remember a single time Sherlock was seen out of his bedroom without a dressing gown or fully dressed.

“Sherlock? You all right?”

John peered at Sherlock’s face and saw that his eyes were only half open, glazed and unseeing. _Jesus, he’s sleepwalking_ , John realized.  A disbelieving grin stretched across his face. He would _never_ let Sherlock forget this. The great Sherlock Holmes, wandering about in his sleep, doing _experiments_ in his sleep - 

Then Sherlock passed near him and the whispers began to take shape, and the hairs on the back of John’s neck rose as he heard what Sherlock was saying: “Billy, Billy, where’s Billy, have to find Billy…”

Instantly sober, his chips forgotten, John sat frozen in his chair as Sherlock paced through the sitting room again. The tone of his voice changed again, became more urgent. “Fixed the hole, sealed it up, John is safe, tell Billy to watch the door, swing it shut, seal it up-” Sherlock moved to the mantle, picked up the skull, and curled up in his chair, his voice lowering to a whisper that John could not make out.

The skin of John’s whole body rippled up into gooseflesh as he remembered that night, that night he had tried so hard to forget, forget for Sherlock’s sake; the night he found Sherlock on the street, delirious and delusional, filthy and hurt and starved. He had never spoken to Sherlock about it, assuming that his friend would not want to know how very vulnerable he had been. And Sherlock had never mentioned it either.

In an instant, John made a decision: he would not tease Sherlock about this, not tell him about it, at least for the time being. Sherlock needed strength and support right now, not be made to feel self-conscious, embarrassed or vulnerable.

That said, it would be – John smiled wryly to himself – a bit not good to leave Sherlock in his chair. It would alarm him to wake in the morning, cramped and confused. He had to get Sherlock to bed without disturbing him. He knew enough about sleepwalking to know that Sherlock was actually asleep, and with luck would remember none of this in the morning.

“Time to go back to bed, Sherlock,” he said quietly but firmly.

“Seal the door, lock it up. Keep John safe.”

“It’s sealed,” John said, swallowing around his dry throat. “It’s safe.”

Sherlock sighed and sagged a bit. John approached him and carefully took the skull from his hands, putting it back in its place on the mantle. “Billy will watch,” he said softly.

He took Sherlock’s arm gently, and felt how cold his skin was, his cotton t-shirt and pyjama pants not nearly enough for the cool night air. Sherlock rose without protest and followed John down the hall back to his room.  John pulled back the covers, folding Sherlock into bed.

Sherlock curled up immediately, like a cat, rubbing his foot against the sheets. “Mustn’t tell,” he slurred as he pushed his face into the pillow, and then was quiet.

John stood for a long moment and watched him, thoughts clanging through his head. “No,” he whispered. “Mustn’t tell.”

+

When John came down from his room in the morning, Sherlock was awake, dressed and sitting at the microscope. “I made tea but it’s probably cold by now,” he said without looking up.

John stared at him, unable to reconcile this familiar image of Sherlock with the wandering, lost man from the night before. “Been up for a while, then?” he said.

“About two hours,” Sherlock replied. “Will you be making more tea, or coffee?”

“Tea, I think,” John said, then forced his voice to stay casual. “Sleep well?”

“Like the dead,” Sherlock said absently. “What did Lestrade say?”


	4. Madness in Great Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets some advice, and Sherlock is tested.

John entered the coffee shop and immediately recognized Anthony sitting at a table in the back. He slid into the chair opposite the man, noting his natty attire, and feeling a bit underdressed in his jeans and plaid shirt.

“Good of you to meet me on your day off, Anthony, and for coming all the way down to London,” he said.

“It was my pleasure to do so, Doctor Watson,” Anthony replied. “My niece lives here, I’ll be seeing her later today. How is Mister Sherlock adjusting back to his life in London, may I ask?”

John thought for a moment before replying. “On the surface, very well. He will likely be consulting for the Met again soon, he’s pleased about that. I’m pleased about that, I’ll admit. It helps him to be busy.”

Anthony nodded, and said, “On the surface, you said.”

“Yes.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched across the table for a moment, then Anthony leaned across the table.

“Doctor Watson, Mister Holmes – the elder Mr. Holmes – does not know I’m here. Similarly, I presume Mister Sherlock does not know you are meeting with me. I sense that we are both concerned with Mister Sherlock’s privacy, and yet both of us wish to help him.”

John licked his lips thoughtfully and nodded. “Well deduced.”

“Such help may be difficult to achieve if we do not confide with each other.”

“True.”

“Allow me to make another deduction, if you will,” Anthony continued as John thought, _My God, there’s three of them_. “First, let me tell you that Mister Sherlock’s rooms are as far from Mister Mycroft’s as the architecture of the house allows. In fact, Mister Sherlock’s rooms are relatively close to the servants’ wing. I am therefore privy to some knowledge of Mister Sherlock’s habits that Mister Mycroft is not.”

“All right,” John said, not sure where this was going.

Anthony leaned forward and lowered his voice somewhat. “Doctor Watson, is Mister Sherlock sleeping well since he returned to London? Or has he had a recent sleepwalking incident?”

John’s jaw dropped a little. “You know?”

Anthony sat back in his chair while keeping his back ramrod straight. “As a child, Mister Sherlock frequently walked in his sleep, usually during times of stress. As I recall, they happened most predictably the days preceding his return to school during the summer and Christmas breaks. When he came to the house for his recent recovery, they happened about every week or two.

“I knew Mister Sherlock was happy to return to London, and that that happiness would alleviate his stress levels – for a time. After some time had passed, I knew that if he did not have something to occupy his mind, the incidents would recur. When you called and asked to meet with me, I surmised that you had witnessed such an incident.”

“Bloody hell,” John burst out. “Is everyone in the Holmes household a bloody detective?”

“I believe the new cook does not yet possess the skill set,” Anthony said solemnly.

John laughed, and the butler allowed a small smile. “Well, yeah, you’re right. Last night. Walking around muttering for a bit but I was able to get him back into bed with no trouble.” He looked sharply at Anthony. “You heard him talking, then?”

Anthony looked pained, but nodded. “I am aware of the … causes of his distress.”

“Of the trauma?”

“Yes. And – yes.”

John felt a flush going up his throat and into his face. “And?”

Anthony pressed his lips together, clearly hesitating. “Doctor Watson, I am aware of the original source of Mister Sherlock’s trauma, though his conscious mind is not. I am also aware of… the reasons for some ongoing stress for Mister Sherlock, outside of the trauma.”

“Say what you bloody mean,” John said sharply.

“All right.” Anthony looked him in the eyes. “I know the importance of your role in Mister Sherlock’s life,” he said softly. “I know what he feels, and why he feels he needs to hide those feelings. And I think you are also aware, and yet you invited him back to live with you again. Not many men would have done that.”

John felt a bit like a pinned butterfly. “He’s my best friend,” he said, wishing he could control the break in his voice.

“You’re a good man, Doctor Watson,” Anthony said softly.

John shook his head. “I’m really not,” he said.

“And yet here you are,” Anthony replied.

Anthony took a sip of tea while John took a deep breath to steady himself, then said, “Perhaps we should move to more practical matters.”

“Please,” John said gratefully.

“I am not a medical professional, Doctor Watson, so I dare not presume to know best in these matters. Perhaps if I described the symptoms that I witnessed, you would be better able to come to a conclusion?”

“Good God,” John said, pulling out his notebook. “Symptoms? Plural? There’s more besides the sleepwalking?”

“I’m afraid so.”

+

John’s head was still spinning as he took the Tube back to Baker Street, his brain packed full of the information Anthony had shared with him. As far as PTSD symptoms went, they were relatively minor. What concerned John was Sherlock’s ignorance of his symptoms, and therefore his denial of his condition would be hard to break. He could tell Sherlock, offer evidence, and beg him to get more conventional therapy – but ‘conventional’ and ‘Sherlock Holmes’ were not compatible things. Moreover, John’s heart quailed at the thought of telling his friend that he was experiencing symptoms that John knew about and he did not. Sherlock’s pride, he knew, was mostly for show; John was not certain how Sherlock would take such a revelation. 

_But what if I don’t tell him, and he gets worse?_

He was so deep in thought he nearly missed the Baker Street stop. When he got to the surface, he checked his phone and saw two messages – one from Sherlock, one from Lestrade.

_Case at Scotland Yard. Meet me there. SH_

John smiled at the normalcy of Sherlock’s expectation that John would drop everything and come. _But of course, he’s right_ , he thought. He scrolled through to read Lestrade’s text.

_Called S for a case. Real case, but hvn’t told its also a test. Come?_

_Oh boy_ , thought John. _This could be great, or this could be horrible_. He raised his hand for a taxi.

When he arrived at New Scotland Yard, Lestrade was waiting for him in the lobby. “All right, John?”

“Greg, what the hell do you mean by a test?”

Lestrade started walking quickly through the labyrinthine corridors of the building. “We’ve a new Chief Superintendent – the one you, uh, met, retired after Sherlock’s exoneration. This one came from Manchester, never met Sherlock before. She outright told me that she felt we were exaggerating Sherlock’s talents. So I asked her to come and see for herself.”

“Jesus, you’re a betting man, Greg.”

“Yeah, I like a flutter now and then,” Lestrade grinned. “He’s been here for an hour already, going through cold cases. Solved two so far. The look on her face is priceless, you can’t miss this, John. I saved the best for last.” Lestrade patted his jacket pocket and would say no more.

They arrived at a conference room, where John could hear Sherlock in full cry: “… can’t believe you lot missed this, it’s so obvious, always look _up_ into the eaves of a room, half the evidence is there, just _look up_ , and…”

Sherlock looked around as the door shut and interrupted himself when he saw John. “About time, John, did you come by way of Finchley? Quick, how long would it take a man weighing 85 kilograms to exsanguinate?”

John caught a glimpse of an unfamiliar woman in the room, presumably the new Chief Superintendent, her mouth hanging open and her eyes blinking rapidly. He tried to hide his smile as he thought, _Welcome to Planet Sherlock. And that’s not the strangest question he’s ever asked me_.

“Completely? Depends on the vein used. About two, two and a half hours, less if it’s a broad cut to the jugular.”

“Any way to speed it up, say to half an hour?”

“Only if you had a pump.”

Sherlock turned back to the file, but not before John caught a glint in Sherlock’s eye. “Right, exactly,” he said. “So you’re looking for someone who has expertise with and access to undertaker’s equipment. The victim had recently buried his uncle, who had left him a large amount of money. Look for the undertaker who laid out the uncle, they murdered the uncle together, splitting the inheritance, but the undertaker panicked and killed the victim.”  Sherlock closed the file and flicked it away from him with a single, long finger. “Anything else?”

“One more,” Lestrade said, barely suppressing his grin. “Gloves on, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed with impatience but pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves.

With an air of ceremony, Lestrade took an envelope from his pocket and laid eight fifty pound notes in front of Sherlock, lining them up neatly. He stepped back, glanced at the Chief Superintendent, crossed his arms, and said nothing.

Sherlock pulled out his magnifier and examined each note carefully. Silence grated through the room; John felt afraid to breathe. He was reminded of the tension in the room during final examinations at school.

After four minutes, Sherlock sat up straight and clicked his magnifier shut. He slid three of the notes to his left and said, “Real. The rest are counterfeit.” He slid two of the other notes to his right and up. “These were done by one group, and these,” he slid the remaining three notes to his right and down, “by another, probably at a printing press in north London…”

John watched him, unable to stop the huge grin that was spreading across his face, so wide it almost hurt. Sherlock was in his element, his powers undiminished. This was the old Sherlock, as when John had first met him, confident and sure and brilliant. The dingy room was suddenly a bit brighter because Sherlock was deducing, he was brilliant and _happy_.

 _He’ll be all right, if he has cases_ , he thought.

And when Sherlock paused for breath, he said, “Fantastic.” And Sherlock looked up at him and smiled, and for just a second, everything else disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have said at the beginning that this sequel came from a suggestion by LadyLaran. Thank you Lady!
> 
> Also hat tip to AtlinMerrick for her Minutae where she notes that one of Sherlock's secrets of deducing a crime scene is to look up.


	5. When the blood burns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case goes horribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for gore - I'll add a summary at the end of the chapter if you need to skip it.

The next few weeks were so much like the old days that sometimes John had to shake his head to remember that Sherlock’s absence hadn’t been a dream. With the new Chief Superintendent as a new convert to Sherlock’s skills, Sherlock was being called into the Met more often than ever. John joined him whenever he could, but Sherlock was clearly rankled by John’s ties to the clinic.

One day he didn’t get Sherlock’s text until far too late. He arrived at the Met just as Sherlock was leaving. Sherlock snitted his way into a taxi and they were half way home before he spoke to John.

“If you’d been there, I would have solved the case at least twenty-seven minutes sooner.”

“Glad to know I’m needed for more than getting the milk,” John muttered, then flushed. He was still feeling that he should be gentler with Sherlock, even though Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate it. He risked a glance at Sherlock – he was turned to look out the window, but John could see that his jaw was clenching. Four years ago, John would have ignored it; now he swallowed around a lump of guilt in his throat.

“When are you going to quit the clinic, John?”

John couldn’t tell from the tone of Sherlock’s voice if it was an imperious order or a genuine inquiry. God, he wanted to say yes, but he loved to tease Sherlock out – wouldn’t do for him to get what he wanted all the time.

“We’ll see,” was all he said.

He knew Sherlock would know the obfuscation for what it was, and was watching Sherlock try not to smile when Sherlock’s phone trilled with a text. All business again, Sherlock thumbed the message open, and John saw him light up immediately.

“Another exsanguination case,” he said.

“I thought they arrested the undertaker?”

“They did. Therefore they either arrested the wrong man, or he had an accomplice, or this is a copycat killer.” The phone trilled again, and Sherlock said, “They’ve only just found the body. It’s not far, just off Lisson Grove.” He tapped on the glass partition and said to the cabbie, “Lisson Grove by the Grand Union, quick!”

John felt the thrum of Sherlock’s energy fill the cab. This would be their first case since Sherlock’s return that wasn’t all handled from a room at the Met, and John realized he was filled with Sherlock’s aching impatience as well.

Suddenly John saw Sherlock’s eyes widen, and he shouted at the cabbie, “No, no, don’t turn onto Marleb-” but the cabbie had already turned, directly into the jammed Friday night traffic.

Before the cabbie could even throw his hands into the air in frustration, Sherlock was muttering “God damn it,” and throwing himself out of the vehicle. Fortunately John knew what was coming the moment the cab turned, and saw the tension ripple through Sherlock; he had his wallet out and was throwing money at the cabbie before Sherlock had reached the kerb.

“Come on John!” came the cry over the sound of traffic and the protest of the cabbie, and John followed, pelting after Sherlock. Pedestrians jumped out of the way, and swore, and John yelled apologies as he ran, and he didn’t take his eyes off Sherlock and his coat flying behind him like a god damn superhero cape, and despite the noise and yammer of London on a Friday night he could hear the tap and slap of Sherlock’s shoes against the pavement. John ran, and his breath got shorter and his heart beat faster and his thighs began to burn with pain but he grinned as he ran, remembering his first night with Sherlock and running after a madman he barely knew, and he had never needed his cane again. And he could see Sherlock running fast and true, with no limp slowing him, and he felt nearly ready to burst with happiness.

 _He may piss me off, but I will always run after him_ , he thought.

He saw Sherlock round the corner onto Lisson Grove, and _holy of holies_ , he had slowed and was waiting for John, looking back at him, impatience and joy fighting for space on his face.

“Just up the way a bit,” Sherlock said, gulping for air.

“You utter madman,” John wheezed, suddenly feeling the burn in his lungs. “How’s the ankle?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, “how’s the leg?”

And so they were laughing as they approached the flashing lights and yellow tape of the crime scene.

“Settle down, settle down,” John muttered as he saw Lestrade coming towards them. “Dead person ahead.” Sherlock snorted but erased the amusement from his face as he walked up to the tape.

“How the hell did you get here so fast?” Lestrade said.

“We weren’t far, just a short jaunt,” Sherlock deadpanned, and John disguised his bark of laughter as a cough.

“Well, it’s your lucky day,” Lestrade said as he lifted the yellow tape for them to pass. “Only just got here, scene’s not even fully secured yet.”

They followed Lestrade into a warehouse, huge and dark, filled with pallets and shipping containers. “Over there,” he waved. “They’re setting up lights, so give them a minute and-” but Sherlock had already pulled his torch from his pocket and was striding towards the still and huddled figure on the ground.

Even after his years as a doctor, his service in Afghanistan and the time with Sherlock on crime scenes, John continued to be taken aback by his first sight of a murder scene. This one was no exception, even more startling than usual. The police pictures of the previous cases had not truly done justice to the sight of a body with their entire body’s capacity of blood spilled around them. Five litres looked like a hell of a lot when puddled on the floor.

“How long ago was he found?” Sherlock said.

“Call came into 999 only about half an hour ago. Forensics isn’t here yet, so we haven’t a time of death yet.”

“You’d have to clean the area up first,” John noted. “Can’t get close to the body without stepping into the blood.”

“Hm,” Sherlock said, shifting around, hunkering down then standing tall again, trying to gather visual evidence from the two yard distance. “No wound to the jugular, you see, John? Same as the others.”

“Yeah. Fast bleed out is easy with a slash to the jugular or carotid, or even the vena cava. The others just had a small cut to – where was it? Calf or thigh?”

“Thigh.”

“Could get at the femoral that way but it’s tricky, and not as fast. You thought undertaker’s equipment?”

“Yes, but the apparatus is bulky, can’t fit in an inconspicuous overnight bag.” Sherlock shone his torch down the length of the warehouse. “Couldn’t have packed it up quickly either, not before the body was discovered.” Sherlock started to walk into the darkness of the warehouse.

“Where are you going?” John said, following ( _Again,_ he thought.)

“Might be stashed somewhere in here,” Sherlock said, pointing to his left. “You search that side.”

It was full night outside now, and there were no internal lights at all save their torches. The dark of the warehouse was like a palpable wall. Despite years of service and work on crime scenes, John was a bit unnerved to be by himself in the dark; knowing Sherlock was only a few yards away wasn’t very helpful when John could only see what the beam of light illuminated. He broke the silence mostly to hear his own voice and to hear Sherlock’s reply. “What I don’t understand about the undertaker theory is that their pumping equipment works by displacing the blood with embalming fluid. The corpses found before weren’t embalmed, they were just… empty.”

“True,” Sherlock’s ghostly voice came from further away than John had thought. He glanced to his right and saw Sherlock’s torch shining up into the rafters. He smiled to himself, remembering Sherlock’s rant about ‘always look up’. “Perhaps they used another material that dissipated or-”

Sherlock broke off and silence echoed through the warehouse. John was accustomed to Sherlock interrupting himself when he had a revelation, but after a moment he realized he hadn’t heard the usual, ‘ _Oh_!’

“Sherlock?”

No answer but his own voice arching back.

“Sherlock, you okay?” John glanced over and could not see the light from Sherlock’s torch. Adrenaline shot through him and he began to jog towards where he had last heard Sherlock’s voice. “Sherlock, say something, where are you?” He nearly tripped over a pallet and had to reduce his speed in the darkness, listening hard but having difficulty hearing anything over the thud of his own heart.

Finally he rounded the corner of a shipping container and saw Sherlock standing stock still, staring down at the ground. Relief flooded through him, and he called out, “Jesus, Sherlock, didn’t you hear me? Scared the living…”

As John drew nearer, he saw that Sherlock’s face was paler, paler than usual, almost grey even under the harsh light of the torch. He followed Sherlock’s line of sight to the floor and immediately slapped his hand over his mouth in horror as he realized that Sherlock was standing in another enormous pool of blood.

It seemed to take forever to get to Sherlock’s side, but only the work of a moment to push and bully him out of the blood and against the side of a storage container. Sherlock seemed frozen, in shock, staring at the huge red stain on the floor, moving only when John pushed his whole weight against him. In the far side of the circle of light from Sherlock’s torch, John saw another body.

“Lestrade!” he shouted. “Lestrade, there’s another body here! Bring light, now!”

Hearing the shouts and footfalls of the officers as they responded, John turned his full attention to Sherlock, who was still fixated on the puddle of gore.

“Sherlock, come on mate, it’s okay, look at me, look at me now,” he said firmly in his best Doctor Watson voice, not allowing his rising fear to break into his voice.

Sherlock licked his lips, once, twice. Without breaking his gaze he whispered, “Get the gun, get the gun, blood on the floor, slipping on the blood, slipping on the floor-”

“Jesus Christ,” John said before he could stop himself. “Sherlock, it’s all right-”

Sherlock’s eyes twitched sickeningly from side to side and John knew he wasn’t seeing him, or the room, but was somewhere far away. “One, two, three, four, five, get them all, two more, find them all, five on the floor, don’t fall, don’t fall, two more, one more, out the door, get out-”

“God, Sherlock,” John said helplessly, then grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him firmly. “You didn’t do this, Sherlock, stop it.” He shook him again, this time hard enough for Sherlock’s head to bang against the metal shipping container at his back.

Sherlock blinked a couple of times, then looked wildly around him, finally focusing on John. “John?” he said, sounding more like himself but still so lost.

“It’s all right, Sherlock, you’re safe,” John said, shifting his hands to either side of Sherlock’s face. “You’re safe,” he repeated.

“Holy shit,” he heard Lestrade say behind him. As he turned, distracted, towards Lestrade, Sherlock pulled away from John’s grip and strode quickly away.

“God damn it,” he muttered, turning to Lestrade. “Greg, I’ve got to go after him, right now. I’ll explain as much as I can later, I know you’ll need our statements, but please let me go after him.”

“Go,” Lestrade said, staring at the second body. “We’ll secure the site.”

John did not waste his breath on thanking the DI, but ran after Sherlock.

The site was not far from Baker Street, and Sherlock walked all the way home at a furious pace. John was able to keep Sherlock in his sights the whole way; Sherlock was clearly not making any effort to shake John, simply walking too fast for him to catch up, and John was reluctant to run up to him in this state. He contented himself with trotting as quietly as possible behind him, watching Sherlock walk stiffly, almost a military march, fists clenching.

As they neared 221B, Sherlock’s paced slowed to his usual speed and his hands relaxed a bit. When Sherlock arrived at the door, he hesitated for a moment, and John wondered if he was waiting for John to catch up again. To John’s surprise, Sherlock leaned down and unlaced his shoes, heeling them off. He picked them up and deliberately walked to a garbage can sitting on the kerb and threw the shoes in. He returned to the door in his stocking feet just as John arrived at the door.

“Please don’t say anything to me right now, John,” he said quietly as he opened the door.

“All right,” John said to Sherlock’s back as he swept past. He followed Sherlock up the stairs, but stopped in the sitting room. Sherlock kept going without hesitation, down the hall to his room, closing the door behind him with a definitive click.

John sighed, letting all the air out of his lungs. Then he went to the kitchen and brewed himself a very strong cup of tea; he guessed it would be a long night ahead of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary for those who had to skip it: Sherlock pressures John to quit the clinic, but then a case goes terribly wrong and triggers a PTSD flashback for Sherlock.
> 
> I've been going back and forth about whether to tag this as Explicit or Mature because of the gore - happy to hear your advice on this.


	6. Perchance to Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t touch me,” Sherlock growled from the bed.
> 
> “It’s John, Sherlock,” John said, trying to keep his voice calm and warm. “It’s just me. You’re dreaming, Sherlock.”

By half midnight, John was nearly asleep on the sofa, lulled by the sounds of an infomercial on the telly. He was beginning to wonder if his instincts were off when he heard something – a soft keening noise, ghostly and high. He struggled to waken, wondering for a moment if he had misheard, or if the sound was a dog howling in the streets, but when he heard it again it was unmistakably from his left, within the flat.

He stood and, barefoot, made his way down the hall as quietly as possible. He heard the keening again, definitely from Sherlock’s room, and this time the sound took shape, a long, drawn-out, “Nooooo.”

John felt the gooseflesh rise all over his body. It was a wild, unearthly sound, and he could never have imagined Sherlock making such a sound.

“Sherlock?” he called softly as he tapped on the door. He felt faintly ridiculous doing so; he didn’t want to wake Sherlock but didn’t feel right entering without announcing himself somehow. Then Sherlock keened again, and this time the sound didn’t form a word but was simply an indiscernible wail. John licked his lips, clenched his hand into a fist and entered.

Whenever John had entered Sherlock’s room in the past, he was always struck by how tidy it was, compared to the anarchic chaos he maintained in the rest of the flat. The room itself was neat as usual, but the bedclothes were churned up by Sherlock’s restlessness in his sleep. Sherlock lay in the middle of the bed, arms and legs jerking fretfully. John wondered what was happening in the dream-world Sherlock was in, whether he was struggling against bonds or running.

“Don’t touch me,” Sherlock growled from the bed.

“It’s John, Sherlock,” John said, trying to keep his voice calm and warm. “It’s just me. You’re dreaming, Sherlock.”

“Don’t touch me,” Sherlock snarled again, then his voice abruptly changed to a scream, “Nonononono…”

“Jesus Christ,” John whispered, his heart thumping. Sherlock was clearly reliving something horrible in his dream, and was trapped there. He knew the difference between nightmares and night terrors – with a nightmare, the dreamer would wake and remember details of the dream, while with night terrors it would be nearly impossible for Sherlock to waken, and he would have no memory of this incident in the morning. At this moment, John was grateful for that. He also knew that anything he would do to attempt to calm Sherlock would enter his dream in a negative way – a touch on the shoulder would become a vice-like grip, any attempt to restrain him would be interpreted as being bound. And if John’s suspicions about the nature of Sherlock’s dream were correct, he would not want to add to the fear.

Watch and wait was all he could do. Try to ensure Sherlock didn’t hurt himself, or leave his room.

“He’s dead, you moron,” Sherlock gasped. “Put a gun in his own mouth while he shook my hand. Right in front of me. Smiled at me while he did it. You hear me? Your hero is dead, I saw his brains leaking out-” Sherlock paused, then screamed again.

_Whose hero?_ John wondered. _Moran’s? Could Sherlock be dreaming about Moran? Jesus, that meant that Sherlock was probably reliving his torture under Moran’s hand. And Moran’s hero was surely Moriarty._

_Moriarty’s dead. One thing to be grateful for._

Sherlock’s body was arching up against the bed as he screamed incoherently. John wondered dully over the thudding of his heart how he could possibly explain this to Mrs. Hudson; there was no doubt she would hear this. She would probably think Sherlock was skinning some animal for an experiment. Then he remembered with considerable relief that she was away with her niece this week, and thanked God for small mercies.

The tone of Sherlock’s breathing shifted, and the screams were replaced by quick short breaths, nearly hyperventilating. He stopped flailing and lay rigid, hands shaking in fists, jaw clenched and twitching.

“No,” he ground out, and the timbre was different; more like an order, a directive. “You will not do that. I will not allow it.”

The shift of Sherlock’s voice from terrified to commanding gave John chills.

“You will not touch him. Not you, not your henchmen. I will rip out your lungs first. Even say his name again and I will kill you.”

John pressed his back against the wall, trying to keep from shaking. Sherlock sat up in bed, his eyes eerily half open but unseeing, his face twisted with rage.

“You. Will not. Touch him. John Watson is _mine_.”

Then for several minutes, Sherlock said nothing discernible, but screamed and threw himself around the bed while John watched in helpless agony. John knew if he approached Sherlock now he would be risking his life, that Sherlock was no longer accountable for his actions. He was aware of trembling, and that his back was wet with sweat.

After what felt like hours but was actually only a few minutes, Sherlock’s screams subsided to high pitched moans, then to deep groans. John felt his own heart rate going down as well, and prayed that the night terror was ending – he wasn’t sure how much more either of them could take.

At last, at last, Sherlock breathing evened out and he turned onto his side, rubbing his face into his pillow. John saw the creases in his face vanish and, bizarrely, found himself wondering what Sherlock looked like as a child.

He stepped away from the wall, feeling his muscles and tendons aching from the rigidity and tension of the night. He took a half step towards Sherlock’s bed.

“Need to find John, see that he’s safe,” Sherlock murmured.

“It’s all right now, Sherlock,” John said, hearing his own voice break over the words. “You’re home now.”

“Follow the eye,” Sherlock whispered, then began to sing, his baritone voice still rough from the screaming:  “A smooth road to London Town, a smooth road to London Town…” 

John remembered the song from his own childhood, his Gran singing it as she knit; he wondered who had sung it for Sherlock.

“… The road goes up and the road goes down, a smooth road to London Town. But by and by we come…” Sherlock hesitated, and John watched with renewed horror as his face crumpled into grief.

“Mummy, can’t remember the words, Myc said to wipe them away, said I didn’t need them but I do, I do. Need to find John but can’t remember the words, Mummy…”

Without thinking, John sang gently, trying to keep his voice from cracking: “But by and by we come to a wood, and there the roads are not so good…”

Sherlock’s face relaxed and he smiled softly, and sang, “A rough road, a rough road, a rough road to London town.” Then he sighed and relaxed completely, and John knew he was finally fully asleep and free of the dream.

John moved silently to the bed and carefully pulled the coverlet from its crumpled ball at the foot of the bed where Sherlock had kicked it, pulled it carefully over Sherlock’s body up to his shoulders. Then he soundlessly left the room, closing the door after.

He climbed the stairs to his room, feeling the small muscles in his body shake and twitch from the adrenaline. He lay down on his bed and stared at the ceiling, and tried to remember everything that he and Sherlock had done together since they met at Bart’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding night terrors: my daughter had a night terror about once a month from the time she was three until she was five or six. If anyone thinks I'm exaggerating here, I'm not; but for the dialogue, this is almost exactly what she (and I) experienced. It was awful to watch her go through this and I was unable to help her. And yes, I would sing to her - including "A Smooth Road to London Town."
> 
> There will be a bit of a skip in posting because... I'm going to London! Hope to meet up with some Sherlockians while there. I will try to keep posting but I'm unsure of the Wifi where we're staying. At the latest I will post next in the first week of August.
> 
> If you'd like to hit up my Tumblr, I'm on there as blogstandbygo.


	7. Nobler in the Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes a decision, and Sherlock gives a lesson in etymology and chatting up women.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting, I was in London and Germany for two weeks with no Wifi (oh, the pain!) Back on schedule now.

John didn’t think he would sleep at all that night, but then he realized that he was dreaming.

The smell of the pool entered John’s dream first, the sharpness of it carving through his sinuses. The next sensation was the heft of the Browning in his hand. He was immediately comforted, calmed, in control.

The image rose into his vision like lights fading up in a play. He saw the water reflecting on the walls and ceiling, heard the splashing against the sides of the pool.

John pulled his line of sight away from the play of water and light and looked along the deck of the pool.  His breath choked him as he saw Sherlock standing opposite him, wearing a parka, Semtex vest strapped to his chest.

“What the hell,” he said softly.

Sherlock’s eyes were exhausted, fearful and wary. “I’m sorry, John,” he said in a flat voice. His hands were extended loosely to his sides, palms towards John; open, vulnerable.

Moriarty appeared between them, smug in his expensive suit. “I’ll burn the heart out of you,” he crooned.

“He doesn’t have one,” John said.

“We both know that’s not quite true,” and the madman sounded almost sad.

In an explosion of movement, Sherlock leapt forward and pulled Moriarty into a chokehold. “Run, John!” he called.

“I can’t, Sherlock,” John said, fighting to keep his aim while his hands become slippery with sweat.

Red lights danced all over Sherlock’s face, his cheek pressed up against Moriarty’s gleeful smile. “Please go, John, I don’t want you to see me do this.”

“Do what?” John whispered, horror pillowing his muscles.

Suddenly there was a knife in Sherlock’s hand. He looked terribly sad, and fierce as well.

“Follow the eye,” he said, and plunged the knife into Moriarty’s belly, pulling up and opening him up like a fish.

John woke with an inhalation of air that choked him, his heart yammering in his chest. It took him a moment to recover from the panic and confusion of the dream, and then he remembered the night before and felt himself swamped in horror all over again.

When his heart rate had come back down to a tolerable rate, he glanced at his clock and groaned; it was seven o’clock and he had to be at the clinic for nine. He swore quietly and rolled out of bed.

He showered quickly and made toast and tea. There was no sound from Sherlock’s room but John almost felt like the screams were still vibrating through the flat. He stalled as long as he could, but the time came for John to leave and Sherlock had still not appeared. John fidgeted with indecision – he didn’t feel right leaving without seeing Sherlock, even if he knew Sherlock wouldn’t remember the horrors of the night.

Coat on, keys in hand, he hesitated in front of Sherlock’s door, then tapped quietly. “Sherlock?”

Silence. John hesitated and tapped again. “Sherlock?”

“Mmpf.”

The grumpy sound was so much like the Sherlock he knew that John was immediately relieved. “I’m – I have to leave for the clinic. I’ll be back around 5:30.”

“Mmpf.”

John hesitated, glanced at his watch again. He had to leave now if he didn’t want to be late. “You okay?”

He heard a sound that was half exasperated sigh, half groan. “John, you’re always after me to sleep and now that I’m sleeping you want to talk? Go. Away.”

John smiled at the doorjamb. “Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

“Mmpf.”

John still felt uneasy, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The last twenty four hours had muddled his thinking. He touched the door lightly with his fingertips, and felt a strong desire to stay, and to be on the other side of this door. Then he remembered that Sherlock was probably at least half listening for him to leave, and so pulled his hand back and left.

+

The morning passed horribly slowly. Between the events of the night before and the lack of sleep, John’s brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool and he was terribly distracted. Several patients had to repeat themselves, and John drank so much tea trying to wake up that he felt buzzed and slightly headachy.

Midmorning he got a text from Lestrade:

     _Found undertakers equip last night, not too far from the 2ndbody. Killer turned himself in._

John shook his head slightly. He had nearly forgotten the murder in the midst of his worry about Sherlock.

     Good news, thx. You tell Sherlock?

_Called before you, he just grunted and hung up. He okay?_

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Such a simple question. A simple answer, then, and not raise the subject of this case with Sherlock unless Sherlock did first.

     You know him. As soon as he solves a case he’s bored by it.

_Youre not wrong. Pint sometime soon?_

You got it.

At his lunch break, he sat in the café and texted Anthony.

     Bad night last night. Flashback and a night terror.

After only a moment, the phone trilled with a response

_Sorry to hear. How long was the night terror?_

     About fifteen minutes I think. Felt like hours.

_That is longer than any I’ve witnessed. Disconcerting._

John pursed his lips, and typed,

     I feel so fucking helpless. I don’t know what to do.

He hesitated, deleted ‘fucking’, and pressed Send. The reply came back immediately.

_I think you do, Doctor Watson._

John stared at his mobile for a few moments. Then he smiled, threw out his tasteless sandwich that he’d only managed to eat two bites of, and returned to the clinic. He stopped at the front desk and said to the receptionist, “Emily, is Doctor Crawford available for a few minutes this afternoon? I need to talk to him.”

+

At the end of the shift, he texted Sherlock:

     Awake yet, sleepyhead?

The response came only a minute later.

     _Of course, I’ve been awake for hours. Got some good results on my Clostridium bacteria experiment.  SH_

     Am now terrified to come home. I’m in the mood for pub grub. Join me for dinner?

_Now I’m terrified. You want to go to a pub to avoid bacteria?  SH_

John laughed out loud, and it felt like a cool breeze on a hot day.

     How are you English again? If you don’t eat steak and kidney pie at least quarterly, they revoke your citizenship you know.

     _I’ve never eaten steak and kidney pie in my life. SH_

     I’m sure Mycroft could intercede so you can keep your passport.

     _Oh God. Fine. Where?  SH_

     Rose and Claddaugh?

_Fine. SH_

+

After the waiter had taken their order (“Is there anything here that isn’t breaded, John?”), John raised his glass of ale to Sherlock. “Toast?”

Sherlock obligingly clinked his glass against John’s. “Are we drinking to anything in particular?”

“Well, yes,” John said, grinning. “I quit the clinic today.”

Sherlock’s face fell open with shock. John giggled to himself – it was so rare to surprise Sherlock, and rarer still to be the cause of it.

“Can you get your position back if you ask?”

Now it was John’s turn to look shocked. “The hell, Sherlock? I don’t want to. You’re getting cases again, we should be getting enough income to-”

“You shouldn’t have quit, John,” Sherlock said tersely.

John’s satisfaction melted immediately in a wave of anger. “What the actual fuck, Sherlock. Yesterday you were asking – no, demanding that I quit!”

“That was before I-” Sherlock stopped, and bit back his words.

Comprehension flooded his mind, made his blood move a little slower. “Jesus, Sherlock, don’t-”

Sherlock was looking down at the table. “John, I – I’m sorry. I lost control of my faculties last night. I don’t quite know what happened, I didn’t really know what was happening until I was half way home.” Sherlock glanced up and John saw a flash of shame and vulnerability on his face. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. Clearly I’m not ready to resume ‘business as usual’.”

John heard bitterness in Sherlock’s words, bitterness and self-recrimination and chagrin, emotions he did not associate with Sherlock at all.

Sherlock continued, “I can’t allow you to-”

“Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut up,” John said, pointing at Sherlock, and miracle of miracles, Sherlock did shut up. “Last night was bad, I’ll admit that. I’m a doctor, I’ve had my hands inside people while their heart is still beating, and I nearly tossed my cookies last night. You reacted negatively to the sight of a horrible murder. Congratulations, you’re human.”

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to argue, but John interrupted. “Yeah, you’re still recovering, and you had a PTSD flashback. Absolutely normal.”

“ _Normal_ ,” Sherlock sneered.

“Yes. Normal.” John leaned forward. “Doesn’t make you any less extraordinary.”

As soon as he said it, John felt the blush start at his ears and neck and move forward into his face. He let his hand fall and looked down at the table. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“No, I-” Sherlock was also looking down at the table, looking easily as embarrassed as John. “Thank you,” he added, so softly John barely heard him.

Then the food arrived and John was never so glad to see a waiter in his life. The food at this pub was excellent, and Sherlock actually looked as though he would eat. John broke the tension by renewing his joke about the steak and kidney pie; the awkwardness then dissipated quickly over the small talk over the meal. They talked about past cases, both medical and criminal.

“Did I never tell you about Anderson getting covered with paint at a scene?” said Sherlock as he tucked into his meal.

“Paint?”

“Yes, a hoarder had been murdered in his house, we were investigating the scene and Anderson accidentally tripped one of the victim’s booby traps. Can of paint tipped right over his head.”

“No,” John said incredulously. He began to laugh, but forced himself to splutter to a stop. “Okay, I have to ask.” He leaned across the table. “What colour?”

Sherlock leaned forward as well, a glint in his eye. “Bright blue.”

Heads in the pub turned towards them as John lost himself in laughter. Through streaming eyes he saw Sherlock grinning, his rare, huge grin.

“He looked just like one of those little toys, the little blue toys, what were they called?”

“Smurfs?”

“That’s the one,” Sherlock said, then his baritone joined with John’s giggle.

Once they had calmed down a bit, Sherlock asked John, “What is a Smurf anyway? If I saw them growing up I must have deleted them, but going to school everyone thought I was mad for not knowing what they were.”

John thumped the table with the flat of his hand. “I know this, I know this, Harry bloody loved the damn things when we were kids, collected them and all. She was constantly quoting facts to me about them. They were a Belgian thing. She told me once how they came to be called Smurfs - they were originally called Schtroumpfs – the guy made up the word when he couldn’t remember the word for salt. Must have been incredibly drunk.”

“ _Schnapsidee_.”

“…What?”

“It’s a German word, means…” Sherlock trailed off for a moment.

“How much have you had to drink? You forget?” 

“No, it’s just one of those words that doesn’t translate easily. It means… a really bad idea, the person must have been drunk when they came up with that idea.”

“I’ve had rather a lot of _schnapsidees_ in my day, then.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Sherlock took another bite of his curry, then pushed it away and looked thoughtful. “I read a paper about the etymology of untranslatable words once. Intriguing linguistics study. For instance: ‘ _pono’ **:**_ Hawaiian; means goodness, excellence, fairness, order, propriety, completeness, care, value, organization, purpose, and hope.”

“Bloody hell,” said John. “You deleted Smurfs, but kept that?”

“It’s interesting, John!”

John threw his hands in the air. “Right, give me another.”

“Okay… _Gesichtsbremse_. German again. Meaning an incredibly ugly person. The direct translation is ‘facebrake’.”

“Break as in broken?”

“Brake as in car.”

That set John off laughing again. “That is brilliant. I’m using that. Another.”

“German’s got a lot of them. Oh – _Feierabend_.”

“What’s that?”

Sherlock pointed at John, the table, the drinks, the food. “This. A celebration after work.”

“Cheers,” John said, raising his glass and tipping the last of his beer down.

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment. “There’s another, one of the better known ones, but I never really understood its meaning until recently.”

“Yeah?” John said, trying to catch the waiter’s eye for another round.

“ _Gemütlichkeit_. It means… well, roughly, belonging. Cozy. Peaceful. Acceptance. Good atmosphere, good food, good drink, and-” Sherlock smiled, almost shyly, “- good friends.”

John stared at Sherlock, and felt the last of his tension of the day before drain away. “Bloody hell, I want to drink to that, but I need more.” He pointed at Sherlock’s nearly empty pint glass. “Another?”

Sherlock hesitated, then drained his drink. “Why not,” he said with a smile.

John grinned back, then looked around for the waiter. “Where’s that boy gone? Hang on, I’ll go up.”

The pub had become crowded with the happy hour rush, and John had to push his way through to the bar. After a few failed attempts, he finally got the bartender’s attention and asked for two more beers.

“Is that good? I’ve never had Smithwick’s,” said a voice on his left.

John turned to see a blonde woman leaning on the bar next to him, clearly waiting for her turn as well. “Yeah, it’s nice. Goes well with pub grub without being too heavy, you know?”

“Sounds good, I’ll have to try,” she replied. “My dad was fond of Guinness, I always thought it was like drinking a loaf of bread.”

John laughed. “I’m with you. I drank it nearly nonstop at uni, though, felt like I should for some reason. Can’t stand it now.”

She smiled at him, and John caught the veiled disappointment in her eye when the bartender returned, clearly noticing the two drinks. “Nice chatting with you,” she said.

“You as well,” John replied, then heard his mobile buzz. He put the drinks down again and grabbed it, assuming it would be Lestrade with more news about the case.

_Talk to her about animals, she’s a veterinarian. SH_

John stared at his phone for a moment, then glanced up at their table on the other side of the pub and saw that it was empty. He looked past the table to the front window just in time to see a taxi pull away. _What is he doing?_ he thought, and texted back.

     Where are you going you berk? I’ve got our drinks.

     _I’m very tired now, John. Please don’t be offended but I ate too much and I’m exhausted. Enjoy your evening.  SH_

John stared at his phone for a moment, then jumped when it buzzed again in his hand.

     _Also she’s a fan of those movies you like, the ones with the glowing sticks. SH_

“Star Wars, you idiot,” John said out loud. _Sherlock Holmes, giving me chatting up tips?_

“Pardon?” said the woman. 

“Oh. Sorry,” he said, looking up at her.

She pointed at his mobile. “Did you just get stood up?”

“No. Yes. Well, kind of. My flatmate had to go.” John put away his phone and looked at the woman. “Well, this might be your day to try red ale. If you want,” he said as he pushed the glass towards her.

“That’s kind of you,” she said, and extended her hand. “I’m Mary.”

“John,” he said, and shook it, and his phone buzzed again. He pulled it out again, smiling apologetically.

     _Try not to talk about politics, she’s Lib Dem. SH_

John laughed out loud as Mary looked at him curiously. “What’s so funny?” she said.

“My flatmate says… he says…” John looked up at her, saw her mouth twisting up into a curious half smile. “He says to talk to you about animals, that you’re a veterinarian.”

Mary’s mouth dropped. “How-?”

“He does that, he can look at someone and figure out everything about them in a glance. Quite eerie. I’m still not used to it and we’ve been friends for ages.”

“Let me get this straight,” Mary said, leaning forward. “Your flatmate saw me from across the room, saw us talking for perhaps ten seconds, figured out everything about me, sent you a tip for starting a conversation, then takes off?” She leaned back, shaking her head. “That’s one hell of a wingman you’ve got there.”

John looked at Mary, and saw that she was beautiful, and smart, and funny. He could see that they could spend the evening together talking easily, and he could have her phone number by the end of the night. They’d have four dates and then have incredible sex. He’d meet her parents and charm them. He could buy her a ring after a year, choosing a sapphire that would accentuate her eye colour, and she’d say yes. He saw all of this in front of him, and it was everything he’d ever wanted, but now it was wrong, _wrong_ , **wrong** , and he had to get home. Now.

He distantly heard himself babbling excuses and was dimly aware of the hurt and disappointment on her face. He grabbed his coat from the hook by the table and rushed out the door to the street and was confronted by the sight of Marylebone on a Friday night, packed with cars, and not a single free cab in sight.

“God damn it,” he said, and began to run.


	8. Doubt Truth to be a Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I left because I didn’t want to be with her. I wanted to be with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a big thank you to my beta, residentbunburyist, for working this chapter with me. I hope it's better as a result.

John focused on his breathing while he ran, determined to not run out of air, to stop or slow down; he timed his breath to his pace (breathe in two three four, breathe out two three four), his whole body merging into the rhythm of running. He dodged past people but didn’t waste his breath apologizing. For a while he kept watch on the street for any free cabs but then realized that he was running faster than the traffic and abandoned that idea. He looked ahead and saw an alleyway on his left that would allow him to cut a diagonal path closer to Baker Street, and ran down it, laughing with his exhales at the kinds of things he had learned from Sherlock. He emerged from the alley and ran across the street, ignoring the honking horns and he felt the sweat gluing his shirt to his back and flowing down his face into his eyes and making them sting and he could see the iron gates of Baker Street, the door of 221B was in sight but didn’t seem to be getting any closer and his ribs were squeezing his lungs and he had a huge stitch in his side and then his keys were in his hand and the adrenaline was flowing freely through his muscles and he missed the lock again and goddammit again and he unlocked the door at last and ran up the stairs.

He wasn’t sure what he expected – Sherlock lying on the sofa in thinking pose, or playing the violin, or reading, or finishing an experiment – but Sherlock was not in the sitting room.

“Sherlock?” he called.

For a moment he heard nothing, and wondered if Sherlock had gone for a walk, or gone to bed, or had been called to a case, or – and then heard something between the beats of his pounding heart: a shuddering exhalation of breath.

John walked down the hallway, gulping air and feeling suddenly cautious and quiet. Sherlock’s bedroom door was closed, and John put his hand on the doorknob, wondering for just a moment if he dared, and then opened the door.

The room was dark, but the streetlamps shining through the window offered enough light to make out the shapes of the furniture inside: the wardrobe, the lamp, a chair. John stood still for a moment as his eyes adjusted, then made out another shape, tucked into the far corner of the room – Sherlock, still wearing his coat, curled into a ball, his forehead on his knees, his trembling hands twisted into his hair.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, unable to move.

Sherlock’s head jerked towards the door, and for a brief second he pressed himself closer to the wall. John saw a mix of emotions on his face – fear, shock, shame.

“J-John?” Sherlock said, and at the sound of his voice, so lost and broken and confused, John’s muscles released him and he rushed into the room towards Sherlock, pulling him into his arms.

“Sh, sh, it’s all right,” he found himself saying. “I’ve got you.” He could feel how hard Sherlock was shaking, the shudder of his muscles making him jerk within his arms. He became aware of Sherlock’s breathing, and realized that he was borderline hyperventilating. “Breathe with me, come on, big breath through your nose, out through your mouth, with me, Sherlock,” and he demonstrated until he felt Sherlock’s breathing merge into tandem with his own. At long last, Sherlock let a great gust of air out and John felt the trembling lessen.

“Okay?” he said softly. “Better now?”

“John, why… Did she… I don’t understand, she liked you, I could tell she was attracted to you, she…” Sherlock closed his eyes and tightened his jaw. “Stupid, stupid, she’s not a veterinarian, is she, she works at an animal shelter, doesn’t she?”

John couldn’t help but laugh. “No, you were right, she’s a vet. That’s not why I left.” John hesitated, and decided that the time for hiding and half-truths was over. “Tell me what’s wrong, Sherlock. Please. Why did you leave?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said, and John could hear his confusion and fear still, his words stuttering. “You – you’ve been so – you helped me even when I hurt you, made you think I was dead and I can’t even explain why, and you quit your job and – I just wanted to do something to – isn’t that what friends do, John?”

“Yes, it is,” John said quietly.

“And I saw she liked you, and you were talking to her, and I thought I could – help. And I thought I should go so you could talk to her, and I came home and thought you might bring her home later, and then I felt sick and I don’t know why, perhaps it was the curry…”

John remembered long ago, when he and Harry were teenagers. Harry had not yet come out, was closeted to everyone, and had fallen in love with her best friend Sandra. She spent hours listening to Sandra talk about clothes and makeup, giggled (falsely) with her over the boys in their school. Sandra came to Harry when she had had a fight with her boyfriend, an utter moron with all charm and no substance. Harry had consoled her with ice cream and tissues, and after Sandra had left, determined to make it up with him, John had found Harry crying in the kitchen over the two ice cream bowls. “Shut up, John,” was all she had said.

Sherlock had done just the same thing, John realized with shock. He’d set John up, and come home and had a panic attack.

John took a deep breath and felt everything come together, and that even though he and Sherlock was sitting on the floor and Sherlock was barely over a panic attack, Sherlock in his arms felt _right_. He looked down at Sherlock and smiled.

“You asked why I left. I left because I didn’t want to be with her. I wanted to be with you.”

Sherlock’s eyes were huge in the gloom of the room. “Why?”

“Because I love you, you git,” John said softly, and was immediately shocked by the sound of the words in the air. He waited for the embarrassment, for the regret, and it didn’t come.

Sherlock froze, just for a fragment of a second, then shrugged in a clear attempt to be dismissive, somewhat detracted by his trembling. “Philia. Friendship. Quite common. Perhaps even Storge, brotherly love, brothers in arms, that’s likely given our livelihood-”

“Or romantic love, which is what I meant. Or all of them together. We can nit-pick another time. You love me too, I know you do.”

Sherlock looked up at him and John was struck by how young and vulnerable and confused he looked, and he couldn’t stop himself, didn’t want to stop himself anymore, and leaned in and kissed Sherlock softly on the lips.

It was only a few seconds, and as he leaned back he could hardly believe he’d done it. He watched with dismay as Sherlock’s face morphed from shock to fury.

“Don’t tease me, John,” he spat. “It’s cruel, I can’t bear it.”

“I’m not teasing you, I promise you, Sherlock,” John said.

“Liar,” Sherlock snarled.

A laugh bubbled out of John’s mouth, surprising both of them. “You moron,” he said. “You know I’m a terrible liar, you say that all the time.”

Sherlock’s mouth hung open slightly, his eyes twitching back and forth in confusion.

“And you know if anyone teased you like that I’d wipe the floor with them,” John said firmly.

Sherlock’s eyes ranged all over John’s face, so sharp and hard that John could imagine Sherlock being able to see under his skin, but he sat and waited. After a long moment, Sherlock’s eyes returned to John’s.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and John watched his face change again into wonder. “You would, wouldn’t you.” Sherlock studied him carefully, and then moved a tiny bit closer, leaning closer to John’s face. John saw the request for what it was, and kissed Sherlock again.

Sherlock’s lips were warm and a little bit chapped, and a little bit stiff. John kept the kiss soft and chaste, and held it long enough to feel Sherlock relax a little bit more in his arms. Then he broke the kiss and gently pulled Sherlock’s head down to rest on his shoulder.

“Is this real, John?” Sherlock whispered, and John could hear the fear in his voice. He pulled him closer.

“Yes, it’s real. Do you me to pinch you?”

“Noooo.” They both laughed, gently.

After a long, long moment of a not uncomfortable silence, Sherlock said softly, “John, why were you in my room last night?”

John’s stomach dropped. He had been so sure Sherlock had been asleep in the throes of the night terror. “How did you know?”

“So you _were_ in my room.”

“God damn it. Lucky guess?”

Sherlock hummed, and John could hear the smile in his hum even though he couldn’t see his face. “Normally I don’t move much in my sleep. Last night the bottom sheet was rumpled and pulled away from the mattress, but the coverlet was over me and flat.”

“Amazing,” John chuckled, then sighed. The time for telling the truth, all of it, was here. “You were having a night terror.”

Sherlock pulled back and stared at John. “I don’t remember dreaming.”

“You don’t, with a night terror. It’s quite different from a nightmare. You never woke up, you’ll have no memory of it.”

Sherlock was quiet for a time, and John allowed the time for him to absorb the information. After a time, he heard Sherlock inhale quietly a couple of times, as if trying to speak.  “Sometimes,” he said, then took a deep breath and started again, “sometimes I wake up and I’m cold, and the blankets are tangled, and, and, the bottoms of my feet are dirty and I don’t know _why_.” John could hear the grit in Sherlock’s voice as his frustration grew.

“You’ve been sleepwalking too, for months now.”

John felt the tension rippling through Sherlock’s body again. “Months?!” Sherlock growled, and John could hear him grinding his teeth. “How – oh, bloody Mycroft-”

“No, not this time, Sherlock,” John said, in disbelief that he was defending Mycroft. “Anthony. He would watch you as you wandered, kept you from leaving the wing. Mycroft doesn’t know a thing.”

“Anthony? My God.”

“Yeah. You’d better get him a hell of a big fruit basket at Christmas.”

Sherlock didn’t laugh, but instead his lips gathered in a snarl. “So what you’re telling me is that for _months_ , I have been traipsing around in my sleep, doing God knows what, in front of my butler and my flatmate.” Sherlock was quiet for a moment, and John felt him start to shake again. “I’ll go back to Mycroft’s, I’ll-”

“You’ll do no such thing,” John said sharply. “This is your home. This is what you want, I know it is. I know you don’t remember, but you kept saying over and over how you wanted to be in London.”

“John, please,” and John could hear Sherlock’s control breaking again, “what did I _say_? Not just last night, but the night you found me. Mycroft won’t tell me, and you’ve been different around me, I said something and I can’t remember and I _hate_ it.”

“All right, shush now, just calm down,” John said softly, holding Sherlock until he felt the trembling subside again. “I’ll tell you, if that’s what you want. You goddamn Holmeses, you think you can delete things and everything’s hunky dory, but it’s not. It’s not.”

“Please John,” Sherlock said again.

“Yes, I will, but this is a long conversation and I’m too old to sit on the floor that long,” John said. “Come on, up you get.”

Sherlock was as wobbly as a newborn deer as John helped him to rise. “Take your coat off now, that’s it,” he said, laying the coat over the chair, then helped Sherlock to lie on the bed. As he straightened, he saw Sherlock staring at him, his eyes wide.

“Are you – are you going to-”

For the first time since he entered Sherlock’s room, John felt doubt and hesitation. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock immediately. “I just – I don’t-”

“I’m not going to make love to you tonight, Sherlock,” John said softly. “You’re still just getting over a panic attack, you’re exhausted and so am I. But…” John felt shy suddenly, “may I lay down with you?”

Sherlock extended his hand to him, his fingers trembling, and said, “Please, John.”


	9. All My Sins Remembered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John, I have to confess I’ve never shared my bed before.”
> 
> Schmoopie romance to wrap this up.

John grinned and heeled off his shoes, and slid under the covers next to Sherlock. Sherlock gave him a smile that was so full of sweetness it took John’s breath away, but then the smile faded and Sherlock seemed to become more tense and rigid in the bed.

“John, I have to confess I’ve never shared my bed before.”

“I figured that out, genius. Here.” John rearranged Sherlock, which was a bit like working with a mannequin, until he had Sherlock on his side, his head on John’s good shoulder, John’s arm around him. “All right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said softly, his voice muffled by John’s shirt and made velvety by the darkness of the room. “John?”

“Yes?”

“What if I want you to?”

“Want me to what?”

Sherlock answered so quietly, the words almost disappeared in the dark. “Make love to me?”

Gooseflesh prickled along John’s arms as he heard the vulnerability in Sherlock’s voice. He pulled Sherlock a little closer, and brought his other hand up to stroke Sherlock’s hair.

“Oh, I’ll make love to you, Sherlock Holmes. I want to, and I can’t wait, but I _will_ wait. After we’ve both slept. And then I want to go slow and take hours. Okay?”

John heard Sherlock gasp softly. “…Okay.”

John kept running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, amazed at how soft it was, how the curls felt as they tangled around his hand. Sherlock hummed with pleasure.

“You cut my hair,” Sherlock said, with a bit of question in his tone.

“You remember that?”

“I think so. I remember feeling much better afterwards.”

“You had lice, I didn’t have a choice.”

“I know. Thank you, Doctor Watson.”

John laughed gently with the memory. “You said that your hair was noisy, that you couldn’t think. You were a bit more talkative after the hair came off.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then said tentatively, “ _Are_ you going to tell me, John?”

“If you wish,” John said. He took a moment to order his thoughts about that strange night. “Um, do you want me to-”

“Just tell me,” Sherlock said, and then, more gently, “please.”

“Okay, okay,” John said, rubbing his thumb against the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Well. I found you outside the clinic. I’m not sure if you tracked me down or if it was just a coincidence. You called out to me.”

“Mycroft says that the universe is rarely so lazy to create coincidences.”

“He would say that, wouldn’t he,” John smiled into Sherlock’s hair. “I brought you back here. You weren’t making much sense, but the gist of it was… you were captured in Prague by Sebastian Moran. I guess he was part of Moriarty’s network, took over after… well, after. And he-” John lost his voice for a moment, then swallowed and continued, “he tortured you, pretty badly, I guess, and he threatened to kidnap me as well, and you escaped.”

“Did I kill him?”

John was momentarily speechless by Sherlock’s clipped question, then took courage in hand and said, “Yes.”

“Good.” John felt the tension in Sherlock’s body, but it wasn’t nervous tension, it was something different. “He threatened you, John. I do not regret that he is no longer a threat. Unless – John, does it change the way you feel about me?”

“No,” said John without hesitation. “I learned this months ago, Sherlock, and I still came to visit you, didn’t I? And asked you to come back to Baker Street with me? If I was horrified, repulsed by what you’d done, would I have done that?”

“No?” Sherlock said with an upturn in his voice.

“No. And it’s not like I’ve never killed anyone to protect you, remember?”

“Okay,” Sherlock said softly. “Thank you.”  He was quiet for a moment, then said, “And Moriarty?”

“You said in your sleep last night that he’d killed himself in front of you.”

Sherlock craned his head around to look at John. “Suicide? Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Curious,” Sherlock said. “Why would he do that?”

“Maybe you just talked to him.”

Sherlock laughed, a soft gust of breath, then turned away again. “Did I say anything about you, John?” he said so quietly that John could barely hear.

_Between confessing to killing someone and letting on that he loved me, he’s not sure which is more horrifying_ , thought John.  Seeking to lighten the mood somewhat, he said, “You kept calling me Leopold something. St-, Stak-, something.”

“Leopold Stokowski?”

“Yes, that’s it. You called me Stokowski in the sun.”

Sherlock began to laugh, the deep chuckled vibrating though his body under John’s hands. “The brain is an incredible thing, John. Is associative speech related to my… condition?”

“Yes.”

“Leopold Stokowski was a famous orchestra conductor. Stokowski in the sun… conductor of light.”

“You’re amazing,” John laughed. “Even in the middle of PTSD, you’re absolutely amazing.”

Sherlock joined him in laughter for a moment, then turned and pressed his face into John’s neck. “John, I’m tired.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll be quiet. Sleep.”

“No, well, yes, I’m physically tired, but I’m tired of being ill, of being afraid. How do I get better? How do I stop having nightmares? What do I do?”

The crack in Sherlock’s voice went to John’s spine. He stroked Sherlock’s head, trying to calm, trying to soothe. “In the absence of finding a mad nutter to solve crimes with, you’ll have to make do with a half-mad ex-army doctor who will bully you into proper therapy as opposed to just deleting things.”

John felt Sherlock smile against his neck. “All right, Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock was quiet for so long John wondered if he had fallen asleep when Sherlock raised his head and looked at John in the eyes. “Ex-army doctor, yes? You are a man of action, are you not?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“And I a man of thought?”

John’s brows came together, unsure where Sherlock was going with this. “Yes.”

“Then help me to stop thinking, John. Just for a little while.”

John felt something warm and bright leap up inside him, and leak out through his eyes and ears and his smile that he couldn’t stop if he tried, and he said, “Gladly.”

He started as he had started before, pressing his lips delicately against Sherlock’s, as Sherlock relaxed in his arms. John placed small kisses on each of the corners of Sherlock’s mouth, then along the line of his lips, feeling them softening against his own. He ran the tip of his tongue along the seam of Sherlock’s lips, then, as they parted, deftly touched his tongue to Sherlock’s. To his surprise, Sherlock gave a surprised noise and broke the kiss, staring at John.

“What is it?” John asked, wondering if he had pushed him too far.

“How very…” Sherlock’s face was a mix of shock and curiosity. “I’ve heard of it before, of course, but it always sounded – unsavoury, unhygienic – but that was…”

“Oh God,” John said, his stomach dropping, “you mean you’ve never-”

“Shush, John. More,” Sherlock whispered, leaning forward and kissing John carefully, parting his lips right away.

John’s embarrassment soon gave way to a pounding heart and growing heat; he could feel Sherlock learning the dynamics of kissing, at first imitating John’s actions, then growing in confidence. After a time he clearly began improvising and John felt his eyes rolling back into his head.

After long minutes that felt like hours, John felt himself tipping to the point where he might lose his self control. He broke the kiss, tilting his forehead against Sherlock’s.

“Trust you to be bloody brilliant at this, as you are at everything else,” he panted.

“A good student requires a good teacher,” Sherlock responded with a smile that lit him up from the inside.

“We need to stop, please Sherlock, let’s cool down a bit, okay? Get some sleep, we’ll talk more in the morning,” John said as he resettled Sherlock onto his shoulder again.

“You sleep, John. I’ll work on storing all this. I don’t want to forget anything.”

John smiled and kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “You sleep too, please.”

Sherlock was silent for a time, then whispered like a lost child, “What if I dream again?”

“I’ll be here,” John said, pulling him closer, closer, stroking Sherlock’s hair until he felt his body slacken. “I won’t leave you, love. Sh.”

“Love. You called me love,” Sherlock said, and John could hear that, despite Sherlock’s best efforts, his voice was slurring with exhaustion.

“I did, yeah.”

Sherlock nuzzled into John’s shoulder, and John could feel Sherlock’s right foot rubbing against the sheet, much as he had done the night John had put him to bed after the sleepwalking incident.

“Love… John Watson.”

And before John could respond, Sherlock was asleep.

+

John dreamed.

He was back at the pool again, but orange and pink light was leaking in the windows that ran along the top of the building. The light reflected differently in the pool, and the sound of the water seemed softer and rang with a higher note.

John had his gun in his hand, but the deck was deserted. He looked all around for the red laser sights, and looked up at the balcony for the snipers, but saw nothing and no one.

He heard a soft splash to his right, and heard Sherlock say with a laugh, “Stand down, soldier.”

John turned to the pool, lowering his gun. Sherlock was in the water, treading water, grinning, his hair slicked back against his head like a seal.

“It’s all right, they’re all gone,” he said.

“Moriarty?” John said, not yet able to relax.

Sherlock shrugged. “Gone. He may come back later, but for now he’s gone.”

John put the gun down on the deck and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock’s grin was infectious, irrepressible, like a boy on the first day of summer holidays.

“Come on,” Sherlock said, and threw himself to the side and began to swim, slicing through the water gracefully.

John smiled, and dove; and woke.

+

John opened his eyes to the light of early morning pouring in through the window. The ghostly shadows of the room from the night before were gone, the sunshine glinting against the mirror of the wardrobe and the glass of the pictures on the walls.

John turned his head and looked at Sherlock, happy to see that he was still asleep. Sherlock had not, in fact, moved much in the night and was still pillowed against John’s chest, to the degree that John couldn’t feel his arm very well. But damned if he would move now.

He studied Sherlock’s sleeping face; the crease that fell between Sherlock’s brows when he was thinking was smoothed away, and his lips were parted slightly. John remembered how those lips felt against his the night before, and felt a small fission of excitement of what the day would bring.

John knew he was a romantic, but he was not a fool – just because he and Sherlock had finally discovered their feelings for each other would not make Sherlock miraculously shake off his problems. There was work ahead, and sleepless nights, and worry, and probably fights, and barriers to overcome. But at least now Sherlock didn’t have to do battle alone, and John was no longer burdened with his knowledge and secrets.

He glanced at the clock and saw that he and Sherlock had been asleep for a little over seven hours, and he suspected this was the longest undisturbed sleep Sherlock had had for months. A good sign.

So John wiggled his fingers a little to try to get the blood in his arm flowing, and waited patiently for Sherlock to wake.

 

_End_

Cover art by HamsterMoon for the whole "Madness In Great Ones" series:  
[](https://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/m1j0tpDK4kB5_oDc9gPxVdMTjNZETYmyPJy0liipFm0?feat=embedwebsite)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to residentbunburyist for being such a lovely and challenging beta, and to all of you for following me - I am humbled.
> 
> You're welcome to join me on Tumblr: http://blogstandbygo.tumblr.com/


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